Letters To Lily
by LoLoGreeneVines
Summary: After the Potters' murders, Snape decides to keep a diary comprising of a series of letters to Lily up until the day he dies.
1. The First of November, 1981

The First of November, 1981

Dear Lily,

Before I start, there is something I need to say. Lily, I love you, and I have loved you since the first time I ever saw you at that playground and it was immediately apparent that you were special. I never told you exactly how much you mean to me, and now you're gone and I can't tell you, that will be the one biggest regret of my life that I shall carry with me to the grave.

I honestly don't know how to put anything else into words. While today the vast majority of the wizarding world has been parading around in purple robes, hugging muggles and partying, I have been unable to do anything but sit in my study weeping, staring at a blank piece of parchment and occasionally writing something stupid, only to scrunch it into a ball and throw it into the waste-paper basket, while I search for words that make sense. Even this, I fear, shall only be a pile of rubbish flowing from my quill, nonsensical ramblings of a distraught mind, so don't expect coherence. Here goes.

I can't pretend I don't feel some satisfaction to think that the Dark Lord has been destroyed, after all, he was the one who took you away from me for good. However, at what cost? If only he'd have acknowledged my request, you would still be alive and I wouldn't have to go through the pain of losing you again. How can I live knowing that you're dead, and it's partially my fault? If I hadn't been so stupid as to pass on the contents of that blasted prophecy to the Dark Lord, Lily Potter would still be more than a name on a sheet of parchment and a corpse lying under some soil in the graveyard of a small village.

Speaking of your grave, as soon as I am able to pull myself together, I really must visit it. Not immediately, obviously, that old churchyard will be full of people, and I really can't bear the thought of people at the moment. The other thing I need to do is to go and see Dumbledore for daring to let me believe he'd keep you safe and going back on his word. He's supposed to be the greatest wizard on the planet, so surely he could have done more to protect you? As far as I'm concerned, he as good as killed you himself.

And don't even get me started on that bastard Sirius Black. I could have told you the minute we met him that he was bad news, I can't even comprehend how you chose to trust that murderer with your life. He was obviously going to sell you out, how could he not, running around Hogwarts with _Potter_, hexing innocent bystanders (including me) and just bullying people in general? You were completely aware that he once attempted to kill me, and had already shown his true colours as a murderer, so why on earth did you not suspect that he might end up handing you over to the Dark Lord on a silver platter?

I heard on the wireless earlier that Black had tracked down the stupid Pettigrew boy and blown up half a street, full of muggle bystanders. Pettigrew was killed, naturally, and his big toe was the largest part of him they found. I'm telling you, Lily, this man is a lunatic. You ought not to have trusted him. I have no hesitation in speculating that had he not been arrested (laughing his head off, would you believe), the werewolf would have been next – making a clean job of his childhood friends, I daresay. The man's clearly a psychopath. The old portrait of my great, great, great grandfather, who gave a lot of gold to the Ministry of Magic before it all disappeared and we ended up in squalor, that my mother always kept in the house has informed be that old Barty Crouch has sent Black to Azkaban without a trial. I can't help but feel that even the dementors' kiss would have been too good for Black, so I am somewhat disappointed with this result, but in these circumstances I suppose it is the best I could hope for.

I also heard that your son has been sent to live with Petunia and her husband. This I am satisfied with, sending the son of James Potter to live with such an unpleasant woman is a very agreeable outcome, as far as I'm concerned. After all, if you hadn't spawned the kid you'd still be alive.

Well, I must go now, I need to accost Dumbledore for reneging on his word. I'll write again soon. I realise you'll never be able to read my letters, and I'll certainly never receive a response, but I can still pretend.

All my love,

Sev.


	2. The Second of November, 1981

The second of November, 1981

Dear Lily,

I'll keep this one short as I don't have very much to say. I went to see Dumbledore as arranged, and I learned something new.

Why has nobody ever seen fit to inform me that that kid has your eyes? When the old man told me that, I got the distinct impression that he was trying to almost blackmail me. You see, he asked me to protect the boy, and as you can imagine that's the last thing I want to do when that kid is responsible for your death. It seems that Dumbledore was aware of this fact, and used the knowledge that pint-sized Potter has your eyes to get me to agree.

Of course it worked. While it would have been inordinately easy for me to attack him for allowing your murder, and then expecting me to risk everything to protect the spawn of my archrival, he knew that I wouldn't be able to turn his request down with this new knowledge. He knew I wouldn't be able to let the last part of you be destroyed.

If anything else worthy of note comes up, I shall write. If I hear anything of your boy, I daresay you'd like to know. Goodness, even I'm finding myself interested now, in spite of myself.

All my love,

Sev.


	3. The Thirtieth of January, 1982

**Author's notes: I made a stupid. (!) That's right, I updated last at half five in the morning and as a result I missed this crucial chapter out by accident. I apologise for my incompetence, I shall try not to let it happen again. :)**

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><p>The thirtieth of January, 1982<p>

Dear Lily,

Happy birthday! You didn't think I'd forget, did you? Today has been a particularly reflective day for me (and considering I essentially dwell in introspection these dark days that's saying something), for I know you would want this to be a happy day and yet I can't bring myself to be happy. This is the first year I have been unable to do something special for you, and that fact pains me.

This may surprise you as in the last few years when you weren't talking to me I couldn't just go up to you with a present. I suspect you worked out that the small, unlabelled presents you would find outside your front door were from me. I hope you liked them as much as I thought you would.

However, I did find ways to celebrate (after a fashion). I visited your grave and left you a bunch of flowers (guess which kind?) and a small flask of an elixir to induce euphoria, as it meant so much that you be happy and due to my limited reserves of gold I am forced to rely on my own talents to craft you a gift you'd have liked and appreciated.

I also made sure that there was cake available at the evening feast at Hogwarts tonight. Of course, nobody knew the reason or even that the request was mine except for Dumbledore. Even though he didn't do enough to protect you, he truly is a good man. Did I tell you that he gave me the position of potions master at Hogwarts? Old Slughorn retired at Christmas, and I was given the job. This is excellent, as it means not only that I get news of your boy the minute Dumbledore hears it, but that one day the boy will actually be here himself and I'll be able to keep a closer eye on him.

However, Dumbledore doesn't trust me entirely, and I think he's quite right not to. You see, the job I really wanted was that of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and he refused me the position. It's easy to see why; if I hadn't been so tempted by the Dark Arts in the first place I might never have lost you to Potter and you might still be alive. I doubt I'll ever be able to forgive myself for that.

Anyway, back to the subject of YOUR BIRTHDAY. I was thinking a lot today about how much more this day means to me than my own birthday three weeks ago. I did absolutely nothing to celebrate it and received no presents besides a pair of socks and a new cauldron from Dumbledore and the rest of the Hogwarts teachers, but I didn't care. I just remembered how when we were younger those three weeks meant so much to you, that you were slightly younger, as if I had something over you for that time. Looking back it sounds rather silly, but there's no arguing with the logic of a ten-year-old, I suppose.

Ah, if I could have given you those three weeks you know I would have. I'd have given you the moon on a stick if I were able to, you definitely deserve it. What a pity it wouldn't fit nicely on top of your grave, even if I could somehow shoot it out of the sky. I wonder if Accio and Reducio would work?

All my love,

Sev.


	4. The Thirty First of October, 1982

**Author's notes: OOPS. I made a mistake uploading this chapter as chapter 3 and missing one out. In fairness, I updated last at half five in the morning, but that's still not really acceptable and I shall try not to do it again. If you've already read this but not the previous letter, go back and read it. Think of it as a bonus one or something. I apologise for my incompetence.**

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><p>The thirty-first of October, 1982<p>

Dear Lily,

I'm sorry I haven't written recently, I have been saving up news so I can deliver it in one go, and the anniversary of your death seemed like an appropriate time to deliver my first full report on the state of your son.

Most notably, the boy has now been living with your sister, her husband and ridiculously spoiled porker of a son for exactly a year now, which is agreeable to me for the reasons that I have eyes and ears to observe him (Dumbledore's got old Arabella Figg stationed in Little Whinging and gets regular updates from her – she babysits the kid) and Petunia doesn't give him any special treatment.

This last point is important for one main reason – James Potter grew up spoiled and pampered, and look where he ended up; first a bully, then a girl-stealer, then dead. Wouldn't want the kid to go the same way, would we? No, the brat must be shown discipline and from what I've heard it sounds like Petunia's doing a fine job on that front. For example, only last weekend the husband's sister visited them, according to Arabella, who was asked to babysit Pint-Sized Potter while the others all went out for a meal. He seemed to be in good health, but subdued. Subdued is good, it means a greater chance of humility. Maybe that's where your husband went wrong.

I brought a copy of the Daily Prophet today, hoping for some sort of an article on you (after all, it is the anniversary of That Day), and even hoping for a picture of the kid. I admit, ever since hearing he has your eyes I have been unable to stop thinking about the fact that one day I shall be able to look into them again, and realise that you're not really gone. Alas, though there was an article, it would appear that there is no wizarding photographer competent enough to track down the kid and so the only picture available was one of the baby asleep in your arms, before your murder.

I'm not complaining, you were in that picture so the fact that I couldn't see for myself the eyes on the kid was a mere annoyance. I can wait to satisfy my curiosity. Goodness knows, I waited long enough for you, and will keep on waiting forever. I'm used to it by now.

Well, I must be off, if I'm not in time for the Hallowe'en feast somebody's bound to notice my absence and come looking for me. It would not do for them to walk in on me sitting at my desk, sobbing my eyes out over a piece of parchment. I'll write whenever I have news.

All my love,

Sev.

P.S. Now I must clench my teeth and write something I really don't wish to. I realise I have essentially been bad-mouthing your husband and son to you, and while I know perfectly well you would not find this acceptable, just know that I can't help it. I know it's not really fair for me to be putting these arguments to you when you can't argue back, but after that man's treatment of me and the fact that he took you away from me and ultimately was partially responsible for your death, I am unable to do anything but loathe him and his son and I don't regret it, so I can't apologise. Please understand this, Lily. Don't be angry at me – I can't stand it when you're anything other than happy.

P.P.S. I hope you are happy.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: I just wanted to say thank you to the people who have been reading this story, and especially to the people who have left the lovely reviews. Seriously, getting online to find that people have been enjoying my story makes my day, I hope you continue to enjoy Letters To Lily and that I don't accidentally stuff it up at any point! :D<strong>

**As far as updating goes, I'm hoping to continue updating every day or two - after all, the individual letters aren't too long, they're fairly easy to write and there'll be a flipping lot of them to get through if I'm to cover the entire series. :)**


	5. The Third of September, 1984

**Author's notes: Again, many thanks and BIG HUGS to all readers and reviewers. If this were Tumblr, I'd post a gif of AVPS Umbridge saying "I love you", but as this isn't Tumblr I can't easily do that. :/**

**Aaaaanyway, here's installment 5. I have skipped a few years as nothing much will have happened, and while I like to think Snape would have been writing Lily random letters about nothing, they wouldn't be very interesting and frankly I can't really think of two years' worth without them getting somewhat monotonous. I have included a kind-of explanation in the letter, well, you'll see for yourself.**

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><p>The third of September, 1984<p>

Dear Lily,

I realise I haven't written in a while but there's been no news whatsoever, and while I have a lot to say to you, years to catch up on, I simply wouldn't be able to get it all down on paper without it being just a string of utter gibberish. I never was at my most eloquent just chatting, and I daresay a one-sided chat to you would be even more awkward for me.

See, I'm already rambling. This is all your fault, Lily. Why must you be so adept at scrambling my thoughts? No, I need to improve my control, and quickly. Of course, I'm excellent with control when I'm communicating with other people face-to-face, but when I'm writing these letters and letting my guard down, I'm such a different person my own mother wouldn't recognise me. Of course, she often didn't recognise me, hence the fiasco that time she came shouting for me in the playground and frogmarched some other poor boy away, only realising she'd got the wrong person when they'd reached the house. Anyway, I'm going off on a rather large tangent. My purpose.

Having spent the last couple of years trying my best to get hold of copies of the _Surrey Ad _hoping there'll be some news of pint-sized Potter (a surprisingly difficult task considering I can easily go for a walk down to Hogsmeade every so often and apparate to Little Whinging – apparently the house-proud Surrey folk don't tend to leave newspapers out for longer than it takes for them to be disposed of), but alas, not a lot of news. There was some advertisement for Petunia's husband's company about a year ago, but apart from that, nothing.

So, a couple of months ago I took a trip to Guildford Library, as I gather Guildford is the county town of Surrey and not too far away from Little Whinging. When I was there, I did some poking around and found some enrolment lists for some of the local schools, and discovered that your sister and her husband have sent their son and little Potter to a muggle infant school in a local borough called Worplesdon, and today would have been their first day.

If Harry weren't the son of that bully, I suppose I'd be quite proud for you.

The kid's growing up. I still haven't managed to catch even a glimpse of your eyes in the crowds of nursery children published in the _Surrey Ad,_ but that's probably all for the best. I daresay half of the Death Eaters remaining at large would love nothing more than to hunt down the kid for what he did to their master, to (I am ashamed to admit it) my old master.

Still, they don't know what I know, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible. If that's until the kid comes to Hogwarts, great. If not, well, I know where he is and I can make myself invisible. You know how good I am at disillusionment charms, and I will do whatever is necessary to protect your genepool.

Ah, I must go now, it's the first-year's first potions lesson and it wouldn't do for them to get the impression that it is acceptable to be late so early on in the school year. As usual, I'll write when I have new information.

I miss you every day. You do know that, right?

Sev.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: I enjoyed writing this chapter as I'm actually from Surrey so I was just writing about what I know. The Surrey Ad does exist, I read it on occasion, and even though I haven't named it I gave Harry and Dudley my old infant school as that will make it easier to write about in the next few chapters, because I know it. Also, the closest geographical location (in terms of trains, travel times to get to other named places in the books etc.) to Little Whinging is a town called Farnborough, which I believe is actually in Hampshire, so for all intents and purposes Little Whinging is now somewhere in West-Surrey. That's why I had Snape visit Guildford, and why Harry and Dudley go to a school near Guildford.<strong>

**Also of note are the facts that Guildford is probably the most Dursley-ish place in Surrey, and that it is actually the county town of Surrey. Also, it's true that we don't tend to leave newspapers lying around for long.**

**Well, that's your geography & miscellaneous South-East British culture lesson over, now I shall shut up. Sorry I haven't updated this in a few days, I was out of the country visiting my grandmother and then I had work when I got back, but now I only have my part-time work and my part-time degree to worry about I'm free to write in the evenings, so write more I shall. :)**


	6. The Twenty Seventh of March, 1988

**Author's notes: Hi! So sorry for the delay in updating, I have no excuse, I'm just disorganised. Honestly, I was putting this one off as it doesn't quite feel right to just skip years at a time, but after a week I realised I couldn't think of enough material to fill ten years, so you'll just have to imagine Snape writing to Lily every year for her birthday or telling her about goings on at Hogwarts. **

**Actually, this was my least favourite chapter I've written so far, so I'm uploading the next one along with it. Enjoy. :)**

**Also, thank you for reading and reviewing; I really appreciate it. :D**

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><p>The twenty-seventh of March, 1988<p>

Dear Lily,

It would appear that your kid has had a very eventful few years at school. I've personally spoken to Arabella Figg today (on the pretext that Dumbledore was too busy to see her himself) and while she assures me the boy is in reasonable health, if rather skinny, he appears to be well enough. She also shared with me some of the rumours she has heard from various people about certain goings-on at Potter's schools while he's been there. I think you'd be proud.

For starters, in 1986 your sister and her husband had a fair amount of trouble with the school when the kid was found on the kitchen roof one day. The official word on the matter is that he was climbing on the school buildings (which I personally would love to believe, and quite honestly with a father like his I wouldn't be surprised if he's inherited that utter disregard for rules,) but nobody can quite understand how as the roof is very high and there's no obvious way up, bar shinning up the drainpipe by the gate (yes, I have visited the school at night). Silly, ignorant muggles, they don't even realise that it could well be because his mother was the most brilliant witch of her age.

However, compared to the ruckus caused when some teacher was fired for having blue hair when everybody had seen her in school that day with brown hair, and assumed she'd dyed it when everybody was having lunch (join the dots yourself Lily, I know you're able to), a report of climbing on the buildings doesn't sound that bad.

On the subject of hair, Arabella assures me that a month or so ago she had to babysit the kid twice in a row. The first time, your sister had evidently hacked away at the boy's hair until there was barely any left (too untidy, apparently, and I can sympathise – if he's inherited that man's hair I'd have done something about it too), but the next day it had all grown back. I'm sure you know what this all means, Lily? The kid's definitely on the road to Hogwarts.

Arabella also informed me that she suspects the boy might be being bullied by his cousin and his friends. I am somewhat indifferent to this, his safety definitely takes priority over his happiness as far as I'm concerned, I assume she only told me as she believes the news is solely for Dumbledore. Oh well, maybe having been bullied will give the kid the dose of humility his father never had.

I still haven't seen what the kid looks like. I would have loitered by his school when it was time for your sister to pick him up, but I can't abandon my duties at Hogwarts and I doubt Petunia would take too kindly to my appearance should I accidentally reveal myself, and I don't want the kid to recognise me in a few years as that man who was spying on him at school, he might get the wrong impression. Even worse, he might get the _right _impression, and that just would not do.

Anyway, I'm off. I can't think of anything else worthy of note today. No. Absolutely nothing. Can you? I suspected not.

Sev.


	7. The Thirty First of August, 1991

**Author's notes: As promised, part 7 along with part 6. Another promise for you: after this, updates are going to be a lot more regular as I won't be skipping years at a time, and the letters will be easier to write. :)**

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><p>The thirty-first of August, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

I am back at Hogwarts now after having spent the summer in Spinner's End. Now my mother is dead, possession of the house fell to me and I thought I may as well spend the empty time there, away from people. I even visited our old playground, which has since been abandoned and left to the Earth. While grasses have pushed through the concrete and ivy has wound itself up the swings we used to play on, I'm very glad they didn't tear the place down. My memories of that playground are worth far more to me than any of my material possessions. Admittedly, I don't own anything of much value, but you know what I mean.

Yes, all of the teachers returned to Hogwarts today, but I spent the day avoiding them, mentally preparing myself to look into your eyes for the first time in thirteen years. Indeed, tomorrow is the kid's first day at Hogwarts, and I shall finally lay eyes on him. I wonder if he's inherited any of your other traits? Obviously, most people go on about the eyes, but nobody has mentioned whether or not he has your perfectly straight nose, the red tint of your hair, or the barely noticeable freckles splashed across your cheeks.

Hmm. Well, this time tomorrow I will know, and this curiosity shall stop eating me alive.

All my love,

Sev.


	8. The First of September, 1991

**Author's notes: I couldn't sleep, so I wrote this instead. That makes three new chapters in one day. I don't think I'll make a habit of that. :)**

**Points for anybody who spots the reference. :D**

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><p>The first of September, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

_How could you_? How could you spawn a kid that looks like THAT?

All around, it has been a difficult evening for me. It was nothing short of some cruel and unusual torture to see your eyes staring out of the face of my childhood tormentor, the living proof of your preference for another man, who just happens to be my least favourite person who ever lived.

The kid only has your eyes. Apart from that, he is his father all over. I didn't get to communicate with him, but I suspect he'd only be like his father in demeanour as well as appearance, how could he not be? He'll just have to learn that at Hogwarts he is just another student and he has no business strutting around the castle, arrogant and proud as _that _man...

It's true, I was distracted the entire evening, torn between watching the boy, hoping to get a glimpse of the emerald eyes, and reminiscing about back when I was your friend. I suspect even stammering Quirinus Quirrell, the new DADA teacher I was sitting next to for the evening, realised I wasn't all there.

Seriously though, Lily, I'm dreading the boy's time at Hogwarts. I just know that every time I look in those eyes I'll get that same pain in my chest, and I'll know it's his fault, that bully. I'm personally offended that that man would dare to get you pregnant, putting you in danger, and giving the kid his appearance as a perpetual reminder that you would rather have opted for the man who bullied me, the man who spent years being stupid around you and childishly attempting to trick you into falling for him, the man we criticised together. The man who tore our friendship apart and cost me my only friend, the girl I loved. The girl I love. The only girl I'll ever love.

Oh Lily, what have you turned me into? A gibbering wreck who can barely string two words together with any reasonable degree of coherence. As much as this would upset you, I honestly hate your kid. Not only is he the reason for your death, but he's your husband back to haunt me probably for the rest of my life. If it weren't for those perfect eyes, I'd feel tempted to throttle it myself.

But then you'd have died for nothing.

This conflict hurts more than the Cruciatus curse.

... That kid is getting the best protection I can physically give him.

I teach him for the first time on the sixth - Friday. I'll write then.

Sev.


	9. The Sixth of September, 1991

**Author's notes: As usual, many thanks for reading and reviewing. :D**

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><p>The sixth of September, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

Today I had the very deep misfortune of teaching the boy for the first time. The moment I took the register it was apparent that your son has inherited none of your talent whatsoever, and when I quizzed him on some of the most basic principles of potion-making it was clear he hadn't thought to open his books before coming to Hogwarts. He hadn't even heard of a bezoar, for crying out loud.

If only you were alive, I know you'd have raised the kid better than this. Not only is Potter an insufferable dunderhead, but I also learned that he is an insolent little whatsit. During the course of the lesson, I was forced to take two points from Gryffindor for the boy's sheer cheek. For example, he apparently considered it perfectly acceptable to talk back to me, and as far as I'm concerned it's the height of bad manners to disrespect the best friend of one's mother in such a blatant fashion.

The brat even had the audacity to let a classmate of his, that Longbottom boy, blow up his cauldron without doing anything to stop him. You'd think even Potter, the epitomy of simpleton, would have the brains to spot that Longbottom had managed to stuff up a perfectly simple cure for boils (added the porcupine quills before taking his potion off the heat, _would you believe_?) and take the initiative to prevent him from doing even more damage. I suppose he thought it would make his own dismal excuse for a potion look good in comparison, for Potter's own concoction was nothing more than shoddy, to be quite frank.

I have something else to share, regarding Longbottom. The register informed me that that moron was also born at the end of July, and as such would have fitted that blasted prophecy. I can't stand that boy; if the Dark Lord had interpreted the prophecy differently, he'd have gone for Longbottom and his Auror parents instead of you, and I wouldn't be sitting here cursing the fact that I'm expected to frequently look into your eyes, knowing I'll only ever see them in Potter's face.

After the lesson, I actually went to see Dumbledore about Potter, expressing my concerns. I was informed that other teachers had described the kid as moderately talented, and likeable. Personally, whoever these teachers are I suspect that somebody's been going around confunding them all.

Dumbledore in turn expressed some concerns of his own to me, he suspects Quirinus Quirrell, and I can't say I blame him. I met Quirrell for the first time at the feast on the first, and he immediately struck me as a suspicious character. Apparently, Dumbledore knew the man when he attended Hogwarts, a few years before us. Dumbledore says the man was always nervous, but he never had such a pronounced stutter at school. Of course, Dumbledore and I are both accomplished Legilimens, but we've both had problems trying to penetrate the man's psyche. Bearing in mind Quirrell is possibly the most pathetic nervous wreck I have ever seen, even worse than the idiot girl Andrews who often burst into tears at the sight of me, so for such a weak man to be putting up such a strong resistance is alarming, to say the least.

Of course, the task of keeping an eye on him has gone to me. Well, I shall be glad to take it on, if there's any chance that Quirrell could put your son in danger, it's far better to be safe than sorry.

Oh, also, Gringotts was broken into a while ago. I would have told you before now, but Dumbledore forbade me from telling anybody until it had hit the Daily Prophet, and I daresay anyone stumbling across these letters would find a veritable mine of information even without the knowledge that the day the Philosopher's Stone was moved, somebody tried to get their hands on it. Well, Dumbledore's got it safe now.

All my love,

Sev.


	10. The Twelfth of September, 1991

**Author's notes: Yay, chapter 10! Actually, this one's pretty short, so the next installment will follow soon. Very soon. Actually, that one will be short too, so I might just upload the next two in one go. :)**

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><p>The twelfth of September, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

The kid has only gone and got himself a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, flouting the rule forbidding first-years. How the heck does that work?

Apparently the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins had their first flying lesson with Madam Hooch this afternoon. (Do you remember our first flying lesson? The old school broom kept on trying to buck me off, and you couldn't stop laughing. You said somebody who'd grown up in the wizarding world ought to already be able to fly a broomstick.) Allegedly there was some sort of a disagreement with the Malfoy boy, and because Madam Hooch was predisposed at the time (I suspect that had something to do with the fact that I saw the Longbottom idiot in the hospital wing with a sprained wrist this afternoon) the pair ended up ignoring her orders to remain grounded and took to the skies.

I'm not sure exactly what happened, but Minerva informed me (and all of the other teachers in the staff room) most boastfully that she had immediately given Potter a spot on the team, despite the rule, and that she was ordering a racing broom for him. She then went on to call the kid "Gryffindor's secret weapon." I'm sure you appreciate the irony, Lily. That's just Gryffindor talk all over.

It would appear that not only is your boy the image of daddy, in addition to having inherited his shocking manners and total lack of respect for authority, but he is also apparently following in his footsteps as a budding Quidditch player.

You know I wouldn't admit this to anybody but you, but I always was a tad jealous of your husband's skill on a broom. Honestly, is that what attracted you to him? (As much as I hate to accuse you of being shallow et cetera...) Either way, I feel a personal sense of foreboding here. I can only hope, for you, that the kid does turn out to be less like that man than it looks like he is shaping up to be.

I'll write when I know more.

Sev.


	11. The Thirteenth of September, 1991

**Author's notes: I'd just like to apologise for my rubbishness and the fact that I wasn't able to find a measley quarter of an hour over Christmas to update this fanfic, it is inexcusable that I've left it about three weeks. I really am sorry. To make up for my ineptitude and poor time-management, I shall spend a lot of time over the next week writing, so there'll be several more chapters of Letters To Lily in addition to some other stuff, ideas I've got, half-written stuff on my hard-drive (including a little gift to all the StarKids of this website) as a sort-of late Christmas present.**

**As usual, thank you for reading and for the lovely reviews. You guys all make my day with your kind remarks about my ramblings. :)**

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><p>The thirteenth of September, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

I _told _you that boy was a troublemaker. Why, Filch tells me that in the early hours of this morning by all reports there were students out of bed near the trophy room, and later on by the Charms classroom. (Ah, Charms. The only subject you exceeded at even more than potions – remember when we were learning to cast Orchideous? Everybody was creating rather mediocre bunches of daisies and the like, while you made a perfect bouquet of multi-coloured roses. Also, I do hope you liked those lilies I gave you – I know I did. I was rather proud of those, but of course the rest of the class only had eyes for your roses. Not that I mind, they were exquisite. You deserved the class' attention far more than I.)

What was I saying? Oh yes, students out of bed. Naturally I suspected your kid, it's precisely the type of stunt your husband pulled on numerous occasions. (At least once a month...)

To confirm my suspicions, in his Potions lesson earlier I took the liberty of using Legilimency on him (I'm sure you know what Legilimency is, Lily, I saw you listening intently to old Professor Spungen's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson on it in our seventh year) and not only did I see Potter, his sidekick Weasley, the buck-toothed Granger know-it-all (actually, probably the brightest in her year from what I've seen although I wouldn't say that to anybody but you. Also a muggle-born. I thought you might like to know that) and the dim-witted Longbottom idiot loitering in the trophy room, but I also learned that the image of Hagrid's blasted pet Cerberus (who is guarding the Philosopher's Stone) is recently ingrained in the boy's memory, which means that he was also flouting Dumbledore's orders to stay away from the third-floor corridor.

Actually, it took all the willpower I had not to just have a heart-attack right there in the classroom. That Cerberus is extremely dangerous, hence its use to guard against certain Dark Forces and also hence Dumbledore's warning; you know perfectly well that the man doesn't utter an unimportant word. After all, it's the boy's second week at Hogwarts and according to Minerva he can't even turn a matchstick into a needle, and I have personally seen his disastrous attempts at even the simplest potions. What chance would he have stood if Cerberus had decided to attack? The boy would be dead before I'd even finished rolling my sleeves up to spend what could be the rest of my life protecting him, and then there would truly be nothing left of you and I would have no reason to be alive.

That's right, without you I'd have nothing to live for. That's how much you mean to me. What the boy means.

I can't stand that boy. I don't even particularly want a reason to live, but this really is the best one; it would be impossible for me to turn away, even if I wanted to.

In other news, Potter has received his top-of-the-range racing broom and as I write he is zooming around the Quidditch pitch (no doubt as arrogantly as his father) at his first Quidditch training session. In the last twenty-four hours I haven't managed to witness his flying, so I can't tell you how proud (or otherwise) you would be, at the moment. I'll fill you in.

I'd best be off now, the evening meal starts before long and if I turned up with a face full of tears, somebody would be sure to get suspicious.

All my love,

Sev.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: Last night I was listening to music at 4am when I couldn't sleep, and a couple of songs came on shuffle in my iTunes that just made me think of Snape and this fanfic (which is why I'm updating now - that was the kick in the backside I needed to remind me). Essentially, what I'm asking is how would you all feel about a Tumblog for this fanfic with an mp3 player with some relevant songs, and maybe some other clag I can't put here (a handful of headcanons etc.)? I realise that hardly anybody would go on the blog if I did one, but if there's anybody at all who would like it, I'll make one. That way I'd be able to answer any questions easily, I'll be able to better express what I imagine to be going through Snape's head, it would be easier for you to kick me into writing if I've left updates too long et cetera. If you think it's a bad idea, please tell me in a review. If anybody thinks it's a good idea, tell me, and I will make the Tumblog for you. :) (Actually, it's probably not a good idea as it did occur to me at 6am when I hadn't slept, but I thought I probably ought to put the idea to you anyway as you're the ones who are reading it.) <strong>

**(TO CLARIFY as I'm exceptionally bad at explaining myself: the only real difference between a Tumblog and here would be that the Tumblog would have a soundtrack. Everything that needs to be in the story will be in the story and here, I just worded it badly: the idea was more to get the full effect. Actually, I'm doing an exceedingly bad job of explaining myself in the clarification, too. Basically, the Tumblog would be this fic + a soundtrack + a letter-like layout. Maybe with some sort of minor conclusion that may or may not make sense that wouldn't make sense here.)**

**What I have learned writing the last couple of paragraphs: I should really stop communicating unless I'm communicating through fictional characters as I evidently understand their cognition more than I understand my own. XD**


	12. The Fourth of October, 1991

The fourth of October, 1991

Dear Lily,

I don't have much news. For once, everything's looking fairly quiet at Hogwarts. It remains to be seen how long this peace shall be allowed to remain undisturbed for, though, as I'm perfectly aware that after Potter's run in with Cerberus he's quite keen for another "adventure". Evidently he intends to make my job as difficult as he possibly could. His father would have done the same.

I received something of a shock today. During Potter's Potions lesson I performed my usual Legilimency on the boy in the last five minutes of the lesson and for a couple of seconds I just saw a lot of green light. Of course, I daresay this means nothing to the boy but if I just witnessed your murder...

It's a good thing it was just before lunch and the Slytherin Quidditch team would be practicing over the subsequent hour, as I could end the lesson a few minutes early, on the pretext of going to oversee practice. Really as soon as the last of the students left my classroom I withdrew to my quarters and just wept. Honestly, it was like losing you again. The first time had been excruciating in itself, but being able to _see_ the curse that caused your death and not being able to protect you from it was infinitely worse. It further reiterated the fact that your death was essentially my fault by offering the perspective of a person just standing around, watching, wanting to even jump in front of the curse to save you but being unable to.

I am so, so sorry for this. It's all my fault. My fault that you're dead. My fault that I'm now stuck babysitting a kid I despise because without him, you would truly be gone.

Yes, I hate the boy, and his father, but the only person I hate more than the pair of them is myself.

Sev.


	13. The Thirty First of October, 1991

**Author's notes: As usual, your reviews are much appreciated. I really don't deserve your kind comments. YOU'RE SO NICE.**

**Anyway, I had a review that was asking about Snape's repeated use of the name Cerberus instead of Fluffy. When I was writing about Fluffy, I did originally use his actual name but it just sounded wrong; "Fluffy" is a distinctly un-Snape-y word, so I decided that Snape would have been clever enough to know about the mythology and probably would have chosen to refer to the dog by this nickname instead of deigning to use such a cutesy word as Fluffy. :)**

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><p>The Thirty-First of October, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

It would appear that Hallowe'en really is the most eventful day of the year. Not only have I spent the day in mourning for the tenth anniversary of your death, but there have been plenty of occurrences at Hogwarts. I was correct in assuming that the comparative quiet here wouldn't last for too long.

During the Hallowe'en feast, Quirrell ran into the Great Hall shouting about a troll in the dungeons, before fainting. Of course, I realised at once that he had been the one to let the troll in (he himself provided a troll to guard the Philosopher's Stone and handled it perfectly adequately) and that he was intending to "regain consciousness" and use the distraction to go hurrying off to the third floor to scope out what other means of protection (besides his troll) Dumbledore had put in place. As the icing on the cake, of course he'd put the flaming troll in the dungeons, as a means of incriminating myself. He knows I suspect him, so what better way to punish me than to potentially place me under the suspicion of the governors and parents, in addition to the Hogwarts teachers?

Long story short, I ended up with a wounded right leg. I also know for a fact that Quirrell didn't get to the third floor as after I put a temporary trap on the door and hobbled back downstairs to help with the troll; it was in my dungeon after all, I happened to run into Minerva on the first floor, who was dragging Quirrell along with her towards a commotion in the girls' bathroom. (You know the one, Lily. In our first week I neglected to see the signs saying what it was and tried to walk in, thinking it was the Transfiguration classroom. I'll never forget the shock on your face when I was flung backwards and landed spread-eagled on the cold stone of the corridor; it made me so happy that you cared about me, cared enough to literally drag me up to the hospital wing to get my sprained ankle sorted out instead of joining in with the laughter initiated by Potter and his cronies. I didn't even mind the pain I was in, or care that I was being humiliated, it just meant so much that you cared when nobody else did. It even gave me hope that you might love me... but I digress.)

Of course, I joined Minerva and Quirrell and as we entered the bathroom, we were greeted by the sight of your kid and his sidekicks surrounded by rubble, gazing down at a twelve-foot mountain troll.

Again, I nearly lost it right in front of everyone. How dare the boy risk all that's left of you for the glory of fighting a troll? The Granger girl (that muggle-born I told you about) spun Minerva some story about her going looking for it and Potter and the orange one going to rescue her, but Legilimency told me that actually Potter had just seen the troll walk past and decided to take it on, instead of hiding. It would appear that he's just as reckless as his father was, and look where _he_ ended up!

I regret writing those last words. You ended up in the same place, and you were anything but reckless. I'm sorry, Lily. Even the best people can be murdered.

Then again, so can the worst.

Again, I digress.

Using Legilimency on the boy also told me that he knows that I made a trip up to the third floor, and of course he knows that there's something up there. The boy is starting to suspect me. I dread where this is going.

Well, I suppose I'd better be off to bed; I didn't get a wink of sleep last night for thinking about the significance of today's date and I don't particularly want to fall asleep in my porridge at breakfast tomorrow. That would most certainly raise a few eyebrows.

All my love,

Sev.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes: I am in the mood to write loads today, so chapter 14 has already been written and will be going up definitely tonight. I also have an idea for a short, Snape-centric one-shot I'm about to get started on. (I watched Deathly Hallows Part 2 for the first time today [or rather yesterday, as it's 4am]. The film, particularly The Prince's Tale, left quite an impression on me. 'Nuff said.) :D<strong>


	14. The First of November, 1991

**Author's notes: foreshadowing AND a reference to MoM in this chapter. Extra RedVines to anybody who spots the latter. Or gets the one I've just made. ;)**

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><p>The first of November, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

Ten years since my first letter to you. Can you believe it? It feels like yesterday I was writing it...

Earlier today I spotted the boy outside reading a library book, so I confiscated it and took five points from Gryffindor. You can't think I'd let him be rewarded for flouting rules and deliberately putting himself in danger? No, the boy must be discouraged from risking his life, ergo your eyes.

What I didn't realise, however, was that Potter would come to the staffroom later that day asking for it back at the moment when Filch was helping me to dress the wound I'd received from that blasted Cerberus yesterday. I had hoped Potter hadn't heard what I'd said about the dog, but I could tell (using Legilimency) that he had, of course. I was correct about him suspecting me, though. As much as I despise the little whatsit, you can't imagine how heartbreaking it was to see his eyes, _your _eyes narrowed at me with such suspicion and hatred; for a second, it reminded me precisely of your reaction that day I accidentally called you a... you-know-what. You know, that's still my worst memory.

After all this time, you are still my strongest memory. A pity it's more a nightmare-memory than a Fountain of Fair Fortune-type fairytale. Aaah, and now I'm remembering reading you that story one night outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, when you fell asleep right there in the corridor so I picked you up and was forced to hand you over to Potter to take you into the common room. (That hurt, it was as though I was symbolically giving you to him.) Then I got caught on the way back down to the dungeons and couldn't see you at lunch the next day because I was in detention.

I just wish there was some way to get that boy to know that he can trust me so he'd stop looking at me like that, but I know I can't without revealing my love for you. I can't imagine anything worse than anybody but Dumbledore knowing that.

This frustrates me.

Sev.


	15. The Second of November, 1991

**Author's notes: Once again, I must apologise for my, ah, ineptitude. I have left it a good two weeks to update this story, which I deeply regret, but as I don't have Microsoft Word on my new laptop and I have to switch between computers to write, in addition to the fact that I have an absolute ton of crap still to be moved from my old computer, I beg of you your understanding. As soon as I have finished with the 20GB of stuff remaining on my old PC, I'll get back into a regular pattern and update more frequently.**

**The positives of having to sift through the junk on my old computer is that I have discovered a folder full of half-written fanfics which I can quickly finish and put here at some point in the near future. :)**

**Also, as far as your reviews go, you are all too lovely. Thank you SOOO much for being so kind to me. Hugs for everyone! :D**

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><p>The second of November, 1991<p>

Dear Lily,

This morning I had the... experience... of watching your boy on a broomstick for the first time. As much as I despise the little brat, it has to be said that he does have quite a talent for handling a broom. Of course, he did catch that bloody snitch, albeit nearly swallowing it, therefore winning the match for Gryffindor. Comprehensively defeating my own house's team.

There was something of a snag, however. Halfway through the match Potter's broomstick apparently adopted the temperament of an erumpent faced with a rival for its mate and endeavoured to buck the kid off, potentially killing him. I realised post-haste that somebody was evidently jinxing it (three guesses who) and seeing as everybody else was too busy watching the action unfold with the chasers to notice that Potter was hanging from his broom by one hand, I took it upon myself to save the boy's neck.

What I hadn't reckoned on were my robes suddenly igniting, forcing me to abandon my counter-jinx in order to stomp the (blue?) flames out. As soon as the rest of the staff realised I was on fire there was panic, and as they were all scrambling out of the line of fire (Ha. Ha.) the cretin Quirrell was knocked over, and suspiciously (!) when I turned my attention back to Potter, he was on his broom again, flying around as if nothing had just happened. Of course.

I'll have to keep a closer eye on the boy in future. Can't have him in danger.

Watching the kid zooming around the pitch, looking for the snitch, one was rather forcibly reminded of his father. Despite the fact that Potter senior was actually a chaser, everybody saw him around the place with that snitch he stole, how he would always be showing off, particularly in front of you...

Yes, I do not hesitate to say that you would be proud of Potter's son, inheriting every single one of James' _desirable _traits, that is, all the ones I do not and never have possessed. All the things that made you pick him instead of me.

All the characteristics I wish I'd had.

I'll write soon.

Sev.


	16. The Eleventh of December, 1991

The eleventh of December, 1991

Dear Lily,

I saw you earlier.

Not in the sense of catching a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye, imagining that some red-headed student walking the other way was you, but more in the sense of coming across an empty classroom which housed a most peculiar mirror.

This mirror was something of an oddity in that when I looked into it, I saw not myself but you staring back at me. Despite the fact that you had aged somewhat (but gracefully, of course), it was definitely you. The you who would be alive today if the Dark Lord hadn't so cruelly snuffed out your life ten years ago. Of course, you don't look thirty-one, maybe mid-twenties, but you always did look younger than you were.

The most peculiar thing about your appearance, however, was that even though you looked stunningly beautiful, even more so than you were at eighteen, you weren't perfect in the conventional sense. Your freckles were prominent and slightly uneven, you had a small bruise on your elbow (rather like the one you got when I raced you across the viaduct in our second year and you forgot to stop in time for the stairs to the viaduct entrance, and you went flying) and the mirror you was wearing plain old jeans and a t-shirt. This slightly threw me, because I thought that the mirror showed us what we want, anything we want, and if I think about it all I really wanted was for an improbably perfect you to send Potter packing when you had the chance and to pick me instead. This was enlightening; I suppose I must already think of your imperfections as being what makes you perfect.

Of note is that neither Potter nor his son were anywhere to be seen in the mirror - it was just you. I didn't even see my own reflection alongside you. What exactly _does _this mirror do?

Mind you, when I first caught a glimpse of your enchanting emerald eyes in the mirror I was so surprised I must have just stood there staring for a good several minutes, drinking in the vision of you, engrossed in the sight before I approached the mirror, when you apparently reached out your hand towards me and held it so it looked as though you were pressing it against a pane of glass between us, so I held out my own hand and placed it in the spot where yours was. The symbolism of this moment nearly killed me, it was chilling to think that there was so little separating us: a pane of glass; the anatomical differences between a living body and a corpse. There really is very little separating life and death, very small things that can go wrong with one's body which can result in one's last breath. One small Dragon Pox complication, one tiny drop of acromantula venom, a couple of lost pints of blood, or one curse, and that's it. You've departed this world and moved On to the next one for good.

There is a constant thought going through my head about how easy it would be to die. I'm so unafraid of death myself (after all, it means I'll see you again) I do often think that had I not had a mission to protect Potter, and a bloody good reason for doing so, I would have no qualms whatsoever with having an accident with my store of snake venom. I certainly don't deserve to live, I essentially killed you. That is truly unforgiveable.

You know, after your death I did sincerely wish I were dead. The only thing that kept me from dangerous irrationality until Dumbledore told me about Potter's eyes was writing you that first letter. Had I not dug out a quill and some parchment and put my thoughts across to you I probably wouldn't have made it out of my own front door to see Dumbledore, and without me around Potter would certainly be dead by now.

Once again, you saved your son, only this time unknowingly.

I have made up my mind to go and visit the mirror every night. I barely sleep anyway, and I'd rather spend the time staring at you and crying than staring at my wall and crying. You look far nicer than a stone wall, I'm sure you'll be glad to hear.

Two weeks until Christmas, when once again I shall stay at Hogwarts and scowl at merrymakers for daring to be happy when the world is so dark because you're not in it any more. And receive more socks from the staff. Oh joy.

Sev

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><p><strong>Author's notes: I'm quite pleased with this chapter, I've disappointed myself slightly with the last few but I do personally quite like this one. I just hope I managed to communicate my meaning adequately. It's slightly ironic that I wrote this earlier today, though. This afternoon, a speeding car knocked the bumper off mine and was only a couple of feet away from injuring me (I'm perfectly alright, it didn't even damage the car's bodywork, I'm just slightly shaken). It really is quite remarkable how there is so little stopping a living body from becoming a dead one<strong>. **#RandomMusings #BizarreCoincidences #INeedToStopUsingHashtags**


	17. The Twenty Sixth of December, 1991

The twenty-sixth of December, 1991

Dear Lily,

Christmas yesterday. Of course, I visited Godric's Hollow in order to place the customary wreath of liles on your grave, as a present to you, before returning to the castle and visiting the Mirror. However, when I got to the correct corridor, Filch started shouting at me.

Naturally, as I deeply mistrust Quirrell I had instructed Filch to come to me if he spotted anybody sneaking around at night, on that offchance that I might catch that unsavoury cretin poking his nose where it doesn't belong.

Filch informed me that there was indeed somebody sneaking around in the restricted section of the library, which ties in very well with Quirrell looking for information, that is precisely where one would think to look first. We spent a good hour searching the area, but we found nobody. Eventually we both just gave up and Filch returned to his quarters as I headed back to the classroom containing the mirror.

I have to admit though, I was so annoyed at having not caught Quirrell in the act of wrongdoing that around the corner from the room I paused to kick the wall, to get my anger out before I saw you. It would not do for you to see me angry. No, I made up my mind a long time ago that you should only see the best of me. I've fouled that up so much in the past it's probably not even worth me saying that now, but I do want to feel as though I've made up even one percent for all the times I've screwed up although I realise I can never come close.

Also of note is the fact that as I rounded the corner to the classroom, I heard the distinct sounds of footsteps on the floor going in the opposite direction down the corridor, but I saw nothing. I'm fairly certain that nobody in the castle has an invisibility cloak and only Dumbledore is capable of producing a sufficiently good disillusionment charm to completely hide himself, so I reasoned I was probably imagining it, what with the lateness of the hour and the knowledge that I was about to see you again.

You still look quite stunning.

Sev.


	18. The Twenty Seventh of December, 1991

The twenty-seventh of December, 1991

Dear Lily,

Well, I have my answer. Yes, I am now aware of what that mirror does.

When I was staring into the Mirror earlier, I noticed that somebody was standing behind me. It turns out Dumbledore had been lurking at the back of the room invisible for as long as I'd been there, and he seemed amused, for some reason.

I told the man that I hadn't seen him, to which his response was a cryptic "strange how short-sighted being in love can make you." I deduced from this either that Dumbledore has been watching me for a while, or that he simply wasn't troubling to disguise himself. Mind you, neither scenario would surprise me, the world does tend to disappear when I'm looking in the Mirror.

Dumbledore continued; he told me that I, like many others before me (and at this point he was practically laughing, he definitely looked as though he had just told a joke), had discovered the Mirror of Erised. Funnily enough, as he said that I noticed strange writing around the edge of the Mirror. Writing which, when reversed, read "I show not your face but your heart's desire."

OH.

I think Dumbledore realised that I had put two and two together by that point, but he continued to explain that the Mirror shows nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts. That really makes a lot of sense.

Dumbledore then offered me a warning, saying that men have gone mad in front of the Mirror before, which I can totally understand. It's probably not normal for a thirty-one year old teacher to be spending hours every night sitting in front of a mirror, reflecting (!) on how my actions led directly to the death of the only thing I've ever loved, while staring at her. Most would spend the time sleeping, or planning lessons.

Dumbledore followed this up with a final statement about the Mirror being moved tomorrow, and warning me against going looking for it. Mind you, he knows perfectly well that I'm fully aware where it's going to end up (protecting the Stone. What else could it be?) so why he's telling me not to look for it is beyond me. It seemed to amuse him, though. He walked out of the room after telling me to make the most of being able to look into the Mirror tonight, muttering something about socks and tittering to himself as he went. Goodness knows what that was all about.

Either way, I'm not going to be able to see you again now until I can persuade Dumbledore to lend me his Pensieve, which looks unlikely.

All my love,

Sev.


End file.
